Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

THE PESSIMIST

Most of our ills and troubles are not very serious when we come to examine the realities of them. Or perhaps we expect too much. An old negro was complaining that the railroad would not pay him for his mule, which it had killed-nay, would not even give him back his rope. "What rope?" he was asked. "Why, sah," answered he, "de rope dat I tied de mule on de track wif."

[blocks in formation]

Nothing to see but sights,

Nothing to quench but thirst,

Nothing to have but what we've got;
Thus thro' life we are cursed.

Nothing to strike but a gait;

Everything moves that goes.

Nothing at all but common sense
Can ever withstand these woes.

From "Ben King's Verse,"
Forbes & Co., Chicago, Ill.

Ben King.

A PROBLEM TO BE SOLVED

There are irritating, troublesome people about us. Of what use is it to be irritating in our turn or to add to the trouble? Most offenders have their better side. Our wisest course is to find this and upon the basis of it build up a better relationship.

HERE'S a fellow in your office

THE

Who complains and carps and whines

Till you'd almost do a favor

To his heirs and his assigns.

But I'll tip you to a secret

(And this chap's of course involved)-
He's no foeman to be fought with;
He's a problem to be solved.

There's a duffer in your district
Whose sheer cussedness is such
He has neither pride nor manners-
No, nor gumption, overmuch.
'Twould be great to up and tell him
Where to go. But be resolved-
He's no foeman to be fought with,

Just a problem to be solved.

This old earth's (I'm sometimes thinking)

One menagerie of freaks

Folks invested with abnormal

Lungs or brains or galls or beaks.
But we're not just shrieking monkeys
In a dim, vast cage revolved;
We're not foemen to be fought with,
Merely problems to be solved.

St. Clair Adams.

PROSPICE

Here the poet looks forward to death. He does not ask for an easy death; he does not wish to creep past an experience which all men sooner or later must face, and which many men have faced so heroically. He has fought well in life; he wishes to make the last fight too. The poem was written shortly after the death of Mrs. Browning, and the closing lines refer to her.

FEAR de mist in my face,

EAR death?-to feel the fog in my throat,

The

When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,

The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;

Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
Yet the strong man must go:

For the journey is done and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall,

Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all.

I was ever a fighter, so-one fight more,

The best and the last!

I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, And bade me creep past.

No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers

The heroes of old,

Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold.

For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,
The black minute's at end,

And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend,

Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast,

O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,

And with God be the rest!

Robert Browning.

THE GREATNESS OF THE SOUL

Geologists tell us that in the long processes of the ages mountains have been raised and leveled, continents formed and washed away. Astronomers tell us that in space are countless worlds, many of them doubtless inhabited—perhaps by creatures of a lower type than we, perhaps by creatures of a higher. The magnitude of these changes and of these worlds makes the imagination reel. But on one thing we can rely-the greatness of the human soul. On one thing we can confidently build-the men whose spirit is lofty, divine.

OR tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill

FOR

And break the shore, and evermore

Make and break, and work their will;
Tho' world on world in myriad myriads roll
Round us, each with different powers,
And other forms of life than ours,
What know we greater than the soul?
On God and Godlike men we build our trust.

Alfred Tennyson.

HEINELET

What sheer perseverance can accomplish, even in matters of the heart, is revealed in this little poem written in Heine's mood of mingled seriousness and gayety.

HE asked if she ever could love him.

She answered him, no, on the spot.
He asked if she ever could love him.
She assured him again she could not.

He asked if she ever could love him.
She laughed till his blushes he hid.
He asked if she ever could love him.
By God, she admit ed she did.

Gamaliel Bradford.

From "Shadow Verses,"
Yale University Press.

STAND FORTH!

The human spirit can triumph over difficulties, as flowers bloom along the edge of the Alpine snow.

TAND forth, my soul, and grip thy woe,

STAN

Buckle the sword and face thy

foe.

What right hast thou to be afraid
When all the universe will aid?
Ten thousand rally to thy name,
Horses and chariots of flame.
Do others fear? Do others fail?
My soul must grapple and prevail.
My soul must scale the mountainside
And with the conquering army ride—
Stand forth, my soul!

Stand forth, my soul, and take command.
'Tis I, thy master, bid thee stand.

Claim thou thy ground and thrust thy foe,
Plead not thine enemy should go.
Let others cringe! My soul is free,
No hostile host can conquer me.
There lives no circumstance so great
Can make me yield, or doubt my fate.
My soul must know what kings have known.
Must reach and claim its rightful throne-
Stand forth, my soul!

I ask no truce, I have no qualms,
I seek no quarter and no alms.
Let those who will obey the sod,
My soul sprang from the living God.
'Tis I, the king, who bid thee stand;
Grasp with thy hand my royal hand—
Stand forth!

From "The Hour Has Struck,"
The John Lane Co.

Angela Morgan.

« ZurückWeiter »